Ennui is a privilege. What a stupid privilege. Makes the women into whores, the men into pussies. We were born to do something. All of us. In these privileged societies cocaine is prevalent for a reason. It makes us think we’re doing something, makes us feel important and useful, and the worst of all: it makes us feel good.

Ronnie bent over the table with a rolled up dollar bill to his nose and put it at one end of a long white snake and snorts it up so fast it looks like the line is alive and climbing into the bill.

He sits back with his head raised, tapping the bill and sniffing loudly.

“FUCK!” He said, and closed his eyes. He leaned forward and looked around the room smiling.

I want to go home. I don’t fit in here. I fit in at home. At home on my computer masturbating. That is where I am truly happy. I can’t love myself in my brain, but I sure as shit can act it out with my hand. That’s almost love.

Jennifer rubs my leg and gives me a puppy eyed look. I brought her here, to fuck, because I still live with my mom, and my mom is not that level of cool, but that’s not the issue: I can’t fuck her. She got way too excited about doing cocaine when Ronnie’s privileged ass brought it up. “Oh okay! Ya I love coke!”

I went flaccid immediately. I hate myself. I know that if she eased into the idea of it, it would be different. “Oh, I don’t know” for two hours, and then “okay, I guess I’ll try it,” so much better than the nanosecond decision she made in her brain. But she’s indecisive like the weather and I already decided I’m not doing it and I’m not fucking her.

I’m going home. I’m going home and watching porn and feeling good for the 5 second aftermath of my orgasm, cleaning up, and laying in my bed listening to shitty music only I seem to like because my friends only like the Strokes. I hate myself and I want to die and I have all the privilege in the world.

But, don’t they know? Privilege doesn’t make anyone happy. It never has.